


elusive

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birder Cas, M/M, Running, Writer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The only time Dean can get outside of his head these days is when he’s running. Alone. Nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. He doesn’t want to drown out the endless noise of humanity -- he has to escape it. He feels like a character in a Joshua Ferris novel. The only one Dean has actually read.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Dean has read all the books that have ever been written about walking or running or escaping.</i></p><p>  <i>He’s been running since the day after the last time he wrote. He’s not sure how he knew the words were gone so soon after they left, but he knew, just like he knew he had to pay penance to get them back.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	elusive

The only time Dean can get outside of his head these days is when he’s running. Alone. Nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. He doesn’t want to drown out the endless noise of humanity -- he has to escape it. He feels like a character in a Joshua Ferris novel. The only one Dean has actually read.

Dean has read all the books that have ever been written about walking or running or escaping. 

Every day he drives for one hour and seven minutes, one way, to get something he can’t get in a city, quaint as this particular one may seem. The silence makes the air heavy but at the same time lifts weight from his shoulders so he can relax again. 

Charlie says he’s crazy, because he runs and runs and runs and runs until he can’t anymore, until he hits his knees in the dirt -- she will joke, later, about what he’s been doing to get his knees bruised like that (and sometimes scraped bloody or worse). He drags himself against a tree and eats an energy bar or something, rehydrates. And then he runs some more. 

He’s been running since the day after the last time he wrote. He’s not sure how he knew the words were gone so soon after they left, but he knew, just like he knew he had to pay penance to get them back. 

He puts his phone on silent so he doesn’t have to listen to it counting out the miles, but a marathon on blacktop would be a stroll in the park. His doctor keeps warning that he’s going to do irreparable damage to his left knee if he keeps it up. His body went from a little soft to pretty good for his age to best shape he’s ever been in to wired together with nothing but muscle over the last year.

But still, he runs. 

 

Mile eight. He’s on a new trail, but can guess the distance pretty well from the way his body feels. 

One foot in front of the other. 

Over and over again. 

It was maybe in a Scott Jurek book that he read, Not all pain is significant. 

It’s so strange to see another person -- here, in his place, among his juniper and oak, cacti and wildflowers -- that he doesn’t even comprehend it at first. 

An apparition, he thinks. Like an oasis in the desert. And fuck, a good-looking apparition at that. Dean congratulates his subconscious for having great taste. This thought seems like something he would’ve joked to himself about before, not now. 

The lovely mirage raises his hand, just a little bit, a slow “stop.” As Dean slows, then stops all forward momentum all together, just trotting in place to keep the potassium from settling in his calves, he realizes that this guy in the middle of his little forest is standing here with his eyes closed. 

“Are you… ok?” Dean asks. 

“Keep your voice down.” 

Dean feels like an idiot but stage whispers all the same, “What are you doing?” 

“Birdwatching.” 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“Stop moving your feet and listen.” 

“It’s the middle of nowhere, dude. There’s nothing to hear.” 

“Lower your voice.” 

A moment of silence, and then the bird man lifts his finger, pointing vaguely to the left. “Just above and to your left, _cheer, cheer, cheer_ is a male cardinal that has been following you for a minute. The mockingbird juvies are singing that trilling phrase three times in succession, over and over. _Chirrup, chirrup_ are the little guys that nest in the bushes.” 

Dean stares. A part of him still thinks he may be hallucinating. 

“But what I’m looking for is that… it’s a long call that sounds like someone’s mother leaving an angry voicemail in Spanish -- a long, rambling song.” 

Dean snorts, but the weirder part is that he can hear it now that he’s filtered out all the _cheer_ and _chirrup_ and mockingbird nonsense. 

“And the female is singing back. You hear her?” 

“Yes,” Dean says. 

“Where are they?” 

Dean doesn’t see anything at all, except maybe the flash of red that’s the male cardinal, still flittering from tree to tree with his distress signal. 

“Stop looking with your mind.” 

Dean looks down, surprised, and is even more surprised to find that Crazy Bird Man (yeah, definitely elevated to “crazy,” and it takes one to know one) is looking at him, and he has eyes the color of polar ice caps, all that seamelt warning that the world is ending. 

“I’m Castiel,” he says. “Come here. Gently.” 

Dean goes. They are both sweaty, shirts sticking up the center of their backs, and together they smell a way Dean would describe as like men. Like the outdoors and aching muscles. 

Castiel has a pair of binoculars, and he spends a moment playing with them, then holds them up to Dean’s eyes. “Straight up until you see him.” 

Dean didn’t realize that stuff this crazy actually happened to people. Is this the prologue to him getting hacked to pieces on a backwoods hiking trail? Is this how things happen on the internet?

And then Dean sees the bird. He might even gasp, like a chick in a fucking romance novel. But truly, he didn’t know things this beautiful were hiding in plain sight around him. “That’s the painted bunting. A type of finch,” Castiel says. “They aren’t necessarily rare around here, but they are elusive.” 

“Elusive,” Dean repeats, the words hardly processing, just staring at the bird through the binoculars, the image a little shaky. 

Again, he could be hallucinating. He always knew there was a chance, and the way he’s been -- well, not-right -- it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? 

The bird looks like a hallucination. The one with the song like a nagging mother, but prettier. It’s blue and red and yellow and green. “He has red eyeliner,” Dean says. 

“Yes. The female’s is white. She’s tough to see.Yellow-ish green all over, white eye ring.” 

The bunting flies off, so quick it’s like he was never there at all, and the spell is broken. “Christ, dude,” Dean says. “Are you a bird-ologist or something?” 

“They are called ‘ornithologists.’ I’m not one. Just an observer.” 

Dean nods, but he’s not sure what to say. He feels strangely protective of the little birds he is only just now noticing. Observing changes things. The act of being observed changes things. He thinks, _me and that bird are the same now._

Castiel says, “I’m not the best with people. But I’m told it’s customary to respond to an introduction by sharing your name as well.” 

“Oh. Uh. Winchester. Uh, Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you. I’d shake, but…” 

They both look down at their hands. Castiel’s are as brown-grimy as Dean’s. Castiel shrugs and starts unfolding a trail map from a pocket on the strap of his backpack. “Well. Now that you’ve scared off all the birds, I might as--” 

“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were -- whatever. Thanks for showing me the bird.” 

“Mr. Winchester,” Castiel says lightly, “birds fly away. After all, it’s very dangerous to be a small creature living in the world of big ones.” 

“I bet birds think the same thing about ants,” Dean says. 

Castiel smiles. It changes his face in a way Dean didn’t expect. Dean should have realized that despite Castiel’s solemnity, the lines around his eyes mean he used to smile a lot. 

Goddamn it, Dean used to know things about people. He walked among them without touching. He used to take parts of them out without them knowing, used to use all the blood and bone and gristle to build words. And then he’d sell the words back to them and pretend it wasn’t just a circular long con. (Observing changes things, after all.)

But he can’t get a read at all on this crazy bird guy. Castiel sounds like a made-up name. Or maybe he had a teen mother. Or maybe it’s just a name. Things don’t always line up neatly in real life like they do in novels. Dean can’t begin to focus on a singular possibility. 

Castiel says, “You’re clever.” 

“You’re a patronizing dick,” Dean says. 

Castiel tilts his head -- did he learn that from the birds? -- and Dean can’t stop hearing all the different layers of sound. Castiel says, “Walk back to the trailhead with me.” 

Dean is a fool and a crazy person and a little delirious from the endorphins and adrenaline and whatever, and even though a part of him wants to keep on running, a bigger part of him wants to listen to Castiel talk more about birds. So he gives a big smile, The Smile That Sold A Lot of Fucking Books (as his agent describes it), and says, “Yeah, sure.” 

Castiel takes a moment to pack his binoculars back into his backpack. Dean looks at the sweat-damp curls of hair around his ears. “How did you get into, you know…”

“You can say it,” Castiel says. His mouth is straight with the edges hooking downwards. “Birding.” 

Dean looks at Castiel sharply and catches the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Birding,” Dean says, a parrot. 

“Yes. That’s what we call it.” 

“You and the other birders?” 

“Yes.” 

Dean tries to choke his laughter under a cough, but Castiel doesn’t seem to notice. Or mind. “Ok. How did you get in to birding?” 

“I read a book.” 

“About birds?” 

“Yes. What do you do, Mr. Winchester?” 

“Jesus, am I old? It’s just Dean.” 

Castiel’s smile is more like a quick quirk at the left side of his mouth than a real expression, but Dean catches a glimpse this time. “Dean,” he says, quiet and grave. “What do you do?” 

“I--” _used to write_ , he wants to finish, but it sounds pathetic, even inside his own head. “I’ve got a couple books out.” 

“Oh? Dean Winchester.” Castiel thinks a moment, and then snaps his fingers. “ _Wayward Daughters_. It’s been on my to-read list for ages.” 

Dean actually blushes. Like a schoolgirl. “It’s not very good or anything.” 

“Would you suggest I start with _KAZ_?” 

“Please don’t make me talk about this. It’s so boring. I’m so bored with signings and press releases and social media PR stunts.” 

Castiel nods, and for awhile, they walk in companionable silence. “I’m a carpenter. I make furniture.” 

“Like Jesus.” 

Castiel laughs, a sound so full of joy that Dean wants to bottle it and sell to the highest bidder. It would certainly sell better than _KAZ._

“I’ve always been told I’m very Jesus-like.” 

They look at each other, Castiel’s face perfectly straight and perfectly beautiful, and Dean cracks first, then they are laughing together, and if Castiel’s laugh is full of joy, their laughs together are the most joyous thing to exist on the planet. Ever. Dean’s sure of it. 

It seems to take no time at all to cross the several miles of rock-strewn trail back to the parking area. Dean stretches while Castiel looks on awkwardly. 

“We should, uh,” Dean says. “We should catch a movie or something sometime.” 

Castiel’s eyebrows raise and he sounds surprised: “Yes, I would like that.” 

By the time he makes it home, Dean is ready to write, knows the title of his next work, types it into his laptop with the carefulness of religious ritual: _The Painted Bunting_.

**Author's Note:**

> [reallyelegantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
